


Memory of the Waters

by solynacea



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Horror, Romance, Supernatural - Freeform, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22730074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solynacea/pseuds/solynacea
Summary: Lir is a Devil Hunter with no memory of her past and a talent for the occult. She takes a job traversing the Temen-ni-Gru, where she finds out just how many secrets the tower holds. Stuck somewhere between heaven and hell, she meets a strange man who holds the key to her fate.
Relationships: Dante (Devil May Cry)/Original Female Character(s), Dante/Lir, Dante/Original Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you dig into this tale, I hope you'll allow me a few words. This will be a _long_ story. While I will not be recounting the events of all of the games in great detail, the time that passes is the same; I will skip periods of years where I can and linger only where necessary, but this will be lengthy all the same. 
> 
> Ratings and tags will be updated when needed.
> 
> I'd like to thank copper_wasp for beta-reading and lickitysplit for the constant encouragement.

_"Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring."_ _  
_— Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

As he flicks blood from Rebellion's edge and watches it dissolve into fine particles of dust, Dante finds himself wondering how, exactly, he had come to be in this situation. Not hunting demons, no, as that has been a part of his life since he was a child, but once again trudging through the destruction left in his twin's wake. It's bad enough that Vergil unleashed monsters on the city; to have this monstrous tower carve out a radius of rubble, causing the deaths of who knows how many, well . . . that isn't something Dante is sure Vergil can come back from, if he even wants to. With a sigh, he slides the broadsword back over his shoulder and turns to consider the branching path in front of him. He needs to go _up,_ because he knows Vergil is at the top of the tower, but every time he starts to make progress, he's hindered by some demonic contraption that sends him in circles. 

And sometimes puts a rather annoying jester in his way. 

Two doors — one red and silver, the other blue and gold — stand separated by a large stone gargoyle. There is no inscription, or hint, merely the baleful glare of the statue as Dante paces back and forth and considers each in turn. He's drawn to the left, the vibrant crimson appealing to his personal taste, but that raises the question of whether Vergil, knowing his preferences, had chosen the right, or if he had realized Dante would know that he knows and chosen the left. _That_ train of logic is liable to leave him stranded with a headache for days, however, so he decides to go through the left and deal with the consequences if he has to turn around. He's just placed his hand on the latch when he hears a startled cry, not quite a scream. Looking up reveals a blur of white and a flash of gunfire and then he's staring at the ceiling, a weight settled on his chest and an ache blooming from his fractured, already healing ribs. 

"Shit," he says, at the same time another voice mumbles, "Ow, ow, ow."

When the dent in his skull is healed enough that he can lift his head without a bolt of pain lancing behind his eyes, he raises it to peer irritably at whoever or whatever has used him to cushion its fall. A girl is sitting on him, rubbing her back, and with a grin he doesn't really feel, he says, "Well, I guess it really _is_ raining women today."

This one, at least, seems less inclined to shoot him than the last. Her head whips around, and he has a second to admire the way her hair flows around her head in waves of white before she scrambles off of him to kneel at his side, her hands digging into the satchel at her hip. "Oh my god," she says frantically, "I'm so sorry! I thought I landed on something too soft to be stone, but I was trying to slow down and maybe that worked, you know? And . . . I'm babbling. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"I've had worse things than a cute girl fall on my head," he replies blithely. She pauses in searching her bag to glance at him, and he's pleasantly surprised when she smothers a laugh. "What's a gal like you doing in a place like this, anyway? Don't tell me you're actually a demon, 'cause I'd hate to have to kill you."

"What? No, I'm here for work." With a victorious _ah-ha,_ the girl pulls her hand from the satchel and holds it out to him. Resting in her palm is a green star he recognizes immediately, and Dante frowns as he takes it from her. "I'm helping someone search for a family heirloom. My name is Lir."

"Lir." He tests it and decides he likes its taste, but his heart is already sinking in his chest. The only people here due to _family_ are himself and Vergil, and Dante knows he didn't hire anyone to help him. Which is a shame, really, because she's lovely in an almost ethereal way, with pale hair and golden eyes that are full of warmth as she waits for him to use the item she's given him, and he really has no desire to start killing humans. "You should probably quit."

She blinks at him as he stands. "Why?"

"Let me guess — the guy you're working for looks like me if you added a sour expression and took away some of the charm." 

"I guess so, though I wouldn't say —"

"He's bad news, dollface," he interrupts. "Go home, get away from here, whatever you gotta do. Otherwise, things are gonna get ugly fast."

Her lips press together. On some instinct he doesn't want to even think about, he offers her his hand and helps her to her feet, taking her silence to study her fully. She's not dressed like a devil hunter, or bounty hunter, or any sort of underworld criminal. In her white shirt and green jacket, she looks more akin to one of the college students he'd see whenever he felt like eating in a diner instead of at home, other than the gun attached to her slender thigh. And when she tilts her head back to meet his eyes, he realizes he's a good head taller, and what he originally thought was youth is actually a petite frame. _Cute,_ is the first thought, followed in rapid succession by _fragile._ Lir adjusts the strap of her satchel, opens her mouth, then closes it. 

Opening again, she says, "I appreciate the warning, uh . . .?"

"Dante."

"I appreciate the warning, Dante. Really, I do. But I wouldn't feel right walking out on this now, not after seeing, well . . ." She gestures around them. "It needs to be taken care of, right?"

The way she talks, like each word is carefully considered and shaped, is sweet and soothing. It's too at odds for such a violent place, and he wonders if it will be a demon or his brother who kills her first. "That's what I'm here for, doll. Killing demons is what I'm good at, and it'd be a shame for such a pretty face to be wasted here."

Lir laughs again, the sound like silver bells. "You're too kind. I'll be fine; I'm stronger than I look, and if I hadn't been so focused on you muttering to yourself, I'd have noticed those demons before I was knocked off of the ledge. Keep the star," she tells him, and he turns to watch her as she heads through the blue door. "You'll need it more than me."

"Now, what the hell," he wonders aloud, "is _that_ supposed to mean?"

* * *

The latch clicking behind her is ominously loud in the quiet hall. Lir hesitates on the other side, taking in the pillars and chains, the fire dancing from sconces on the walls before beginning her cautious trek forward. Despite how cheerful she'd tried to be to the stranger — _Dante,_ she reminds herself — the near death experience was terrifying. Choosing between being skewered or jumping and praying she could cushion her fall before she hit the ground was unpleasant, and her fingers tremble as she curls them around the strap of her bag. _One step at a time,_ she thinks. _This isn't the worst job, or the first with demons. It's just longer than you're used to._ That, however, doesn't bring her much comfort, particularly when she rounds a corner and finds Arkham waiting nearby, flipping idly through the pages of his book. She knows that he's aware of her, which is why she continues past him without a word. 

The sound of his footsteps closes in on her, and she holds back a grimace. Something about him is unpleasant, prodding at the part of her that feels demons more keenly than most, and she does not look at him when he says, "You should be more careful."

"Did Vergil send you?" she asks. 

"I merely thought I would . . . Ensure that you had not failed him," he replies smoothly. Lir bites the inside of her cheek to hold in a scathing response as he continues, "It would be a shame if you were to perish here."

 _You wish._ "I'm quite well, thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find the library. There's knowledge there that might be useful later on, and my services aren't required at this time."

"Of course."

She feels his eyes on her back until she finds another door to pass through, and she glances back to find him watching her blandly, his book held loosely to his chest. He turns and heads back the way they had come, and only then does she relax; she had not met Arkham until after she had been hired by Vergil, and the man's disdain for her is more than obvious. The only reason he has not killed her yet, in her opinion, is that their employer made it absolutely clear that she is necessary for navigating the tower without getting caught in its traps and puzzles, but once this is over, she has little to no doubt that he will attempt to take her life. And he'll be in for a rather nasty surprise. Her title of witch is more than just honorary, and her spells are not just meant for opening doors. 

She wanders the corridors. At every new room, she pauses to pull her sketchbook from her bag and add on to the maps she has been making, labelling each one by its most prominent feature. _The Chess Room,_ for the checkered floor and twisted statues; _The Guardians,_ because of the twin pillars flanking a large, ornate door. On and on she goes, through a looping maze of halls. When demons begin to take notice of her, Lir finds a small alcove and reapplies the ward that keeps her unremarkable to them. 

The last thing she needs is to be swarmed again. 

There's no sign that directs her to the library, but she uses a waystone to slowly pick her way towards it. Lir winds up standing in what might have once been an elevator shaft; every twenty feet or so is a ledge with a strange red platform, and at the bottom, so far down she can barely make it out through the gloom, is a door lit by flickering blue torches. She chews her lip, glancing at the pendant swinging from her hand. It points tauntingly down. But even if she _could_ work up a spell that would allow her to survive the drop, she has no idea how she would climb back up, as there are no stairs. Her shoulders slump as she realizes that her search has been, at least for now, in vain. 

"Well," she murmurs, "shit."

Making her way back to the veranda where she met Dante is easier now that she knows the way. He's not there when she returns, something that leaves her feeling oddly disappointed, so she sits against the wall and thinks. He had seemed genuine when warning her away from the tower and Vergil, but is that really enough for her to leave? Her gaze lands on the crimson door — _like his coat_ — and Lir decides to try to catch up with him, maybe learn why he was so certain that things were going to get, as he put it, _ugly._

It winds up being a shortcut to the last place she wants to be. The long, exposed marble path is slick with rainwater from a sudden storm, and from the end of it comes the sounds of screaming steel and raised voices. Lir glances out into the open sky, where the Leviathan floats with a malignant grace, and then she presses on, through yet another door. It is silent now, and she reaches out carefully to see who is ahead, finding Vergil and Arkham and a fading presence that she recognizes as Dante. _Be a shame for such a pretty face to be wasted,_ she thinks, and, despite their brief meeting, she is sad at what has happened to him. He had been kind, in his own way, and the aura that curled around him was vibrant and warm, if a little rough around the edges. With a sigh, she goes to traverse the slight incline. 

And nearly falls to her knees when a blast of power slams against her shoulders. 

It is furious, dangerous, something feral and raw and starved that bears down. She braces herself against the wall, ignoring how the water soaks into her shoulder as she tries to breathe under the pressure. _What the hell is that?_ It's gone almost as quickly as it came, and when she finally gets herself under control, she realizes that Vergil and Arkham are leaving Dante alone on the platform. Lir takes several deep breaths and waits for the shaking of her legs to subside before joining him, reminding herself of his kindness to keep her fear at bay. If he had any desire to hurt her, he would have done so already, and, while the sight of blood and the gouge in the floor hints to a truly awful battle, he doesn't seem dangerous to _her._

Lir finds him standing at the edge of platform. One sleeve of his coat is missing, and there's a hole that's level with the center of his chest, but he seems otherwise unharmed, leaving her to wonder what, exactly, happened to cause such a violent outburst of magic. "Are you going to jump?" she asks by way of greeting. 

He gives her a quick grin over his shoulder, and their gazes lock. For the first time, Lir really, truly _sees_ him: the broad shoulders, the long, muscled limbs, the straight nose and strong jaw and piercing, blue-silver eyes. He's handsome, she thinks, which is odd. Dante had said Vergil is his twin, and she had looked at Vergil more than enough in her time working for him. Why does Dante make her pulse quicken? Why does he make her feel like she wants to pause and admire him, even with the danger surrounding them? A breeze ruffles his white locks, breaking her from the spell as he reaches up to brush his hair out of his face. 

"You missed the party, dollface. What took you so long?"

"You're the one who told me to stay away," she points out, and he lifts his brows in surprise. "Your turn."

"Seems to be the fastest way down, and I'm in a bit of a hurry."

She nearly asks him if he would even survive the fall, but she already knows the answer to that. "Before you do that, come here." He doesn't budge, merely tilts his head, and she groans. "I'd go to you, but I'm not the biggest fan of heights . . . Please?"

"Well, how can I say no when you ask so nicely?" Dante saunters over to her, a cocksure smile on his face, and she can't decide if it's because he's pleased to see her or knows he could cut her in half if she tried anything. "Gotta say, though. A tower? Odd-ass place to be if you're terrified of heights."

"I'm not terrified of them, I just don't like them." Once he's within reach, she leans in to examine his chest, finding a thin, silver scar over his heart, yet no wound. The same when she lifts his hand to study his palm — and that earns another quip that has her rolling her eyes — and when she looks at the skin under the cutoff of his sleeve. "I don't know how you did it," she says, stepping back, "but you either came out of that fight somehow completely unscathed, or you're a medical miracle." _Or a demon,_ she adds silently. 

"Why not both?" His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes anymore. 

Lir lets out an exaggerated sigh. "I should warn you about the insane risk of going skydiving with that thing floating around, but I get the feeling you’ll do it anyway. Just . . . take these." She plucks another two stars from her bag and places them in his hand, wondering if he'll be alright and knowing, somehow, that he will be. 

"You keep giving me things, and I'll think you're sweet on me," he teases. 

That makes her pause. While giving someone the benefit of doubt is what she usually does, haphazardly giving away things that would be useful to her is not. Lir meets his blue gaze evenly as she replies, "It'd be a shame if such a handsome face went to waste."

He blinks at her owlishly , then throws back his head and laughs, the sound deep and rolling pleasantly over her. Her own lips curl upwards and she thinks that he looks good like this, in this tiny moment of carefree humor, and when he shakes his head with a chuckle and steps back, she nearly follows. "I'll keep that in mind," he tells her with a wink. "Don't want to make a pretty girl cry, after all."

He's nearly at the edge when she calls out to him. "The control room is in the basement of the tower. That's where Vergil will be heading."

His smile turns a little sharp. "You aren't setting a trap, are you?"

"No," she says pleasantly. "I'm quitting. See you there, Dante."

He considers her for so long that she wonders if he's going to leave or if he's decided that she should die, and then he gives her a two-finger salute and leans backwards until he falls. Lir dashes over with a shout — demon or not, that drop will kill him — only to watch with a sort of amused disbelief as gunfire flashes among hordes of bloodgoyles before his tiny figure is swallowed by the Leviathan. Normally, the sight of that thing swallowing _anyone_ would send her into a panic, but he's survived enough that she has little doubt she'll see him again. 

It's not until she's back within the tower proper that the truth of what she's doing fully sets in. Whether or not Vergil is evil she cannot say, and she's giving up a paying job on the word of a stranger she knows next to nothing about because of a gut feeling about his intentions, giving away supplies she should keep, as if they're easy to find. Lir glances back the way she came, chewing on her lip as she mulls over her options. She's just made two powerful enemies who are far more acquainted with this place than she is, and she doubts that saying sorry will keep them from tearing her apart. But Dante had _seemed_ sincere. A bit uncouth, a bit coarse, but ultimately _good._ Morrison had told her once that her instincts about others were as sharp as he'd ever seen, even if she tended to ignore them unless given a reason not to, but that's all she needs to square her shoulders and continue on. Because Dante's aura had been burning, a crimson flame that lit his surroundings, and it had been _warm._

And for her — someone who is very, very cold — that is enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Somewhat. The cast of characters grows in this chapter, and writing each of them proved a unique challenge. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

_“I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks;_ _  
_ _and I make so many beginnings there will never be an end.”_ _  
_ — Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

Exhaustion begins to become a worse threat than any of the demons in the tower. Every minute that drags into another hour Lir spends walking and climbing and hunting drains her strength to the point where even the pills she had brought — her own concoction to keep her stamina and life force strong — are doing little more than keeping her awake. But she has an answer or two, she thinks, so Lir moves as steadily as she can to where she is supposed to rendezvous with Vergil.

She finds him standing outside of the huge door at the base of the tower, and despite everything, Lir is pleased. It is exactly as she had pictured based on her research, so with some renewed energy she strides confidently towards Vergil. She knows she can open this last door for him, and once she does that, she is planning to turn and go. The pay, their agreement, nothing matters anymore. She just wants to get out of there and go home and forget everything about Vergil and Sparda and the Temen-ni-gru.

Unfortunately, as she approaches Arkham also comes into view. Lir grits her teeth a bit, dreading another confrontation. He spots her and steps to the side, and Vergil turns, smiling when he sees her. "Lir," he says, the warmth not reaching his eyes. "Finally. Tell me you have some good news."

"That would depend on your definition of _good,"_ she replies. He cocks a brow, his grip on his sword tightening ever-so-slightly; she knows the gesture means he's liable to use it should she irritate him, and she cuts her gaze to Arkham. 

"The female devil hunter lives. I happened to catch sight of her near the entrance, just as the Leviathan was felled," she adds.

Vergil watches her. "Does that woman truly bother you, Arkham?"

"What are you talking about?" the man rumbles. 

"Why didn't you kill her? Is that not what you intended to do?" Vergil's eyes do not leave Lir’s. "Perhaps because she's your daughter? Did some pesky fatherly," he sneers the word, _"love_ get in your way?" His words make her uneasy; if the devil hunter she saw _is_ related to Arkham, why is she here? Did he lure her somehow?

Arkham steps forward, rather foolishly, Lir notices, bringing him well within striking distance. "That is none of your —"

His words choke into a spray of blood and phlegm. Lir, frozen by shock and the beginnings of fear, can only watch as Vergil finally turns to face him, revealing to her the sickening way his blade protrudes from Arkham's chest. Her ears ringing, she does not hear what is said; her only thought is, _That could have been me. Will be me. He won't let me walk away from this._ She sees Vergil's eyes narrow, watches him tear his sword from Arkham's body, feels the thud of the magician's corpse collapsing to the floor. _He's bad news, dollface,_ Dante's voice whispers in her ear, and she comes back to herself with a jolt as Vergil strides towards her. 

"The door, witch," he says coldly. 

Lir swallows and moves, stepping around Arkham and trying to ignore how his blood squelches beneath her boot. _I killed him. If I hadn’t said anything . . ._ She takes a deep breath before placing her palm on the cool metal. "It will take me a moment. Getting down here was —"

"Did you aid Dante?" Though his voice is indifferent, all she can think of is how quickly he had cut Arkham down, and her mouth dries. "No matter. He will be too late."

She can feel him behind her as she works carefully through the locks and safeguards meant to keep all from accessing the control room. His presence is distracting, like a fly buzzing around her head, and his seemingly innocent question makes it difficult for her to focus. When the last ward — a nasty thing that would have crushed their bones to dust — is gone, she closes her eyes and waits for him to strike her down. Her exhaustion means that the difference between their strengths, already large, has become impossible, and there is nothing she can do to stop him. "Good," he says; her eyes snap open as he walks by her. "Come. You might be useful still."

Casting a nervous glance at what remains of Arkham, Lir follows. 

The room they enter is spacious — high-vaulted ceiling stretches up into shadow, while beneath it a platform covered in lines that glow with white-hot magic takes up much of the floor. In the center of it is a small, golden indent. "Vergil," she begins quietly, "what will happen when you get your father's sword?"

"Having regrets? The time for that has passed."

Lir paces the room, running her fingers over the wall. "I only want the truth." He says nothing, and she looks over her shoulder to find him kneeling next to the indent, holding identical pendants in his hands. "Are you truly going to unleash hell?"

He glances up at her coolly. "Do you intend to stop me?"

"I can't," she answers honestly.

Vergil regards her for a moment longer. Then his attention returns to his task. "Power," he says. "Might. They control everything. The fate of the weak is to suffer beneath the strong. I will attain the power of Sparda. What happens after is no concern of mine."

Lir watches as he drops the pendants into the bowl and draws his sword across his palm, allowing his blood to flow freely. There is a brief, almost violent, thrum of energy that has her bracing for what is to come, the desolation and devastation that will follow in his wake, the guilt of knowing she is partially to blame. And yet . . . Nothing happens. No gate opens, no demons flood the room. "There's no magic here," she murmurs. 

For the first time, his composure slips. "Why?" he hisses, stalking around the bowl. "Why isn't it working?" His eyes land on her. "You. _Witch._ Tell me, must more blood be shed?"

"I don't —" She steps backward, eyeing his sword, remembering the sound of it piercing Arkham’s body.

"You seem to be in a bad mood." 

Lir flinches as Dante walks into the room. He seems no worse for the wear than when she last saw him, if a bit more bloody, and underneath the fear of what he must think of her — ridiculous as _that_ is — is a blooming excitement at seeing him again. Dante grins at her, all boyish charm with an underlying edge, and she feels the same jump to her pulse as she did at the top of the tower, the same draw to him that she cannot explain.

"Hey, dollface. I thought you were leavin'?" She gives a helpless sort of shrug, and he nods, as if to say he understands, before switching to Vergil. "So, Mom’s amulet is the key that unlocks the door to the demon world." He chuckles wryly. "Good plan, Pops."

With the two of them in the same room, the fact that they are twins becomes blatant. But Lir notices that there are differences, too: Dante is broader, his jaw more square, whereas Vergil is leaner and more refined. She does not know which of them to look at, only that there is violence crackling like thunder in the air, and she backs away as Vergil shakes his head. "Just the opposite. What was once a key became a gift."

"Doesn't matter to me either way." _Don't do this,_ she wants to say to Dante, taking in the polished steel gleam of his gun as he points it at Vergil. _Don’t spill more blood. Don’t get yourself killed._ "More importantly, I did come all this way. I'm sure you have time for one more game . . . Right?"

Lir opens her mouth to call out to him. A long-fingered hand clamps violently over her face, and she is yanked into an alcove, where a jester with irregular eyes peers down at her with a sly smile. "You really bungled this one, girly-o," he chirps.

Then he slams her head into the wall, and she feels a crack that rattles her teeth before the world goes dark.

* * *

Someone is shaking her. 

Mumbling, she swats at whatever it is, and the grip on her shoulders goes tighter, ten pinpricks digging into her skin through the fabric of her coat. Her mind is full of dreams, of drowning and dark water and low, mumbled prayers, and she could sink into them, sink deep and slow until nothing of her remained; yet whatever holds her is persistent, demanding, and, with a low groan, Lir opens her heavy eyes to find a man with pale eyes and paler hair looming over her. _An angel,_ is her first thought. Then she remembers: the seedy bar, the job offer, the demonic tower, the twins, the jester, and she jerks upright, nearly cracking her skull against Dante's. They are no longer on the platform, but on the ground near a crumbled wall. Her gaze flickers to the pillar in the center, then to the rubble around them, catching a glimpse of the woman devil hunter, before finally returning to Dante, who is cursing and rubbing the tip of his nose. 

"I'm alive," she breathes. He opens his mouth as if to reply, but she catches hold of his coat and yanks him down into a kiss that is as hard as it is relieved. His lips are softer than she expected, softer than they have any right to be, as they part under her own, and he tastes of mint of blood and something indescribable. His own hands rest uncertainly on her shoulders; yet he makes no move to push her away, merely holding her with a carefulness she did not know he was capable of, as though she is made of something fragile that will drift away if he lets her go. 

By the time her thoughts catch up to her actions, her fingers are tangled in his hair, and she releases him and scoots back with a flustered laugh. "I'm so sorry," she says, gesturing aimlessly. "I don't know what came over me."

Dante peers at her blankly for a moment. His lips are still parted, and he closes them to clear his throat. "No harm done, dollface. I'm just glad you're awake. I thought you'd kicked it, with how pale you were."

"No, I . . . What happened?"

He shrugs. "Turns out that guy —"

"Arkham," the devil hunter interrupts. Startled, Lir leans back to look at her, her eyes falling on a nasty gash in her thigh. "The bastard's name is Arkham."

"Right," Dante replies. "Well, Arkham decided he wanted a piece of me, too. All of us, it turns out, and now he's taking the express lane to Hell to get Sparda's sword. Don't know where you went, though. You disappeared right before things got interesting."

Lir considers that, mulling over what little she knows of Arkham. "There was a jester," she explains slowly. "I think he knocked me out cold right after you showed up." Then she reaches for her bag, relieved to find the contents mostly undisturbed, though her sketchbook is gone. "Will you sit down, please?" she asks the woman. "That wound needs treatment."

Dante and the woman share a look, but she does as she's been told, wincing as she extends her leg to Lir, explaining, "Arkham was the jester. He assumed different forms to lure us here. _That_ costume was the one he picked for _him."_

Her eyes — blue and brown, like Arkham's — cut accusingly towards Dante. Lir pauses in sorting through salves to glance at him, and he meets her gaze steadily enough that she decides to ask him about it later. "This will sting," she warns, "but it will numb you enough that I can stitch you up. Is that okay?"

The woman nods. With a snort, Dante says, "This lady here is on a mission to stop him. Turns out we're all doing a shit job of what we came to do."

"I see." Then she says nothing, because her attention is focused on the cut, which is far worse than she thought. It goes through the woman's flesh, though it missed the bone, and the bottom edge is jagged and rough, as though something serrated on one side and smooth on the other tore through it. At the top, deep bruises are already beginning to form, which means the weapon was like a knife, the blunt edge pushing through to cause nearly as much trauma as the teeth; frowning, Lir carefully closes both sides with neat stitches, smears ointment over it, and binds it tightly with the few bandages she has left. 

Placing her sewing kit back into her bag, Lir asks, "What do we do now?"

"I'm going after him," the woman replies coldly. She stands, testing her leg, and slings a rocket launcher over her shoulder. Lir notes the blade on one end and realizes it was what wounded her. "I have unfinished business with him."

Dante watches her go before shaking his head. "She's gonna get herself killed."

"Should we stop her?"

"Nah. Last time I tried, she shot me. Twice."

His indignant tone makes her smile, but it fades quickly with the stench of brimstone in the air. "Vergil . . .?"

"Dunno." Whatever he feels, he doesn't show it on his face. "Haven't seen him since Arkham kicked us off the platform. Speaking of which . . ." He stands, offering a hand that she takes and hauling her easily to her feet. His grip is strong, his palm warm through the dingy leather of his gloves, and she curls her fingers at her side to hold that feeling against her skin when he releases her. "She's not the only one with a score to settle. Guess I'll go, too."

"Alright. I'll accompany you."

He studies her for so long that her pulse pounds in her ears. Then he grins, and it's a little crooked and a lot sincere, as he says, "You oughta go, dollface. You took a nasty hit, no sense tempting fate. Plus, if this all goes south . . ."

Lir understands, but that doesn't make the odd sensation of being left out any easier to bear. "I'll go to the city, see if I can clear out whatever's lingering there." Dante nods, turning to go. Yet she hesitates. Will he be okay? Will he survive? "Dante," she calls, wincing at the sharpness of her tone, and he pauses. "Don't die up there."

"Wasn't plannin' on it."

He glances at her over his shoulder, looking as though there is something else he wishes to say. And Lir watches him, waiting, wondering if he will change his mind and ask her to join him, uncertain of why she wants that so badly. There is _something_ between them, she thinks, thin and fragile as ice in the spring thaw. Surely he feels that, too? But Dante says nothing, merely raises his hand in the same gesture as the last time they’d parted, and her last notion of him is that he makes an imposing figure as he leaves, coat swirling against his calves. Were she so inclined, Lir would describe it as almost heroic, but those are the thoughts of a girl with a worldview shaped by romance, and if she ever was such a person, she no longer is. She watches him all the same, until he disappears behind what is left of a wall, before surveying her surroundings more closely. 

While she could follow him, she knows the tower is full of hidden passageways, and one of those will undoubtedly lead outdoors without taking her back through the infested halls that Dante and Lady will have to fight through. Picking her way through the rubble, she finds herself thinking of the way she'd come to be here. After finishing her last job — a rather strange affair involving a lamp that relocated itself at will — Lir had taken a shortcut home, only to wind up cornered by Vergil in the alley. The choice had been presented to her: go willingly and be paid, or be dragged along, and she had decided that extra cash wouldn't hurt. 

She's so caught up in her musings that when she stumbles over a sword, she nearly doesn't notice. The sword, it turns out, is clutched loosely in a gloved hand, which connects to an arm, which leads to a torso half-covered in rubble. Lir takes in the face beneath the grime, the once tamed silver locks in greasy disarray. "Shit," she mutters. 

* * *

"Would you listen to me?" she hisses. "I understand wanting to go kick his ass, believe me, but you're in no shape to climb through a portal." The figure ahead of her doesn't slow down, and Lir grits her teeth and quickens her pace to catch up as they wind through the halls towards the store rooms. "Vergil!"

He whirls on her suddenly, the fury in his eyes making her question whether waking him was the right choice. Despite all he'd done, she'd found that she couldn't leave him there to die, but now he's set on killing Arkham and she's worried he's going to bleed out during the climb. "Be silent," he grinds out. 

"I'll stop talking when you start listening," she replies irritably.

"Your words mean nothing."

She draws in a sharp breath. If this was _before_ the gate was opened, she would back down, afraid of incurring his wrath, that he would use the sword he grips so tightly to cut her down. Yet she knows that there is some code of honor to him — otherwise, why not kill her as soon as he regained consciousness? — and that makes it easy to speak through the fear. Trying to soften her voice, she says, "I don't know why you're so set on this. But _look_ at yourself. You're bruised and bleeding and moving through sheer will alone. How long can you keep going like this?"

"Until I have acquired what is rightfully mine." He turns away from her, and she watches the contained tremble that wracks his shoulders. "Until I have the power of Sparda."

Unbidden, in what is barely a whisper, she asks, "What happened to you?"

Vergil stiffens. "I have learned," he says slowly, like every word pains him, "the cost of foolishness. Of weakness."

"So you'll go." He doesn't respond, and that is answer enough. Sighing, she moves to stand next to him and leans around his shoulder to look up at his face. His eyes are narrowed, his brown low, his jaw clenched, and, for a moment, forgetting his cruelty, she marvels at the strength it must take to continue in his condition, the dedication it requires to ignore the pain he no doubt feels. "Well, I suppose I'll have to go with you, then. My job is to navigate this tower, and if you're heading to the top, it's not over."

"Idiot witch," he sneers. "You'll die."

"I've made it this far."

"Through luck alone."

"Maybe. But you _need_ some luck." She thinks of Dante, doing everything he can to halt the apocalypse they have wrought, and her throat tightens; maybe she saved Vergil for him, to protect something she has no memory of herself, that oddly wound bond between family. Or maybe Morrison is right, and her bleeding heart will get her killed one of these days.

He considers her coldly. "Do as you please," he says at last, "but do not expect _me_ to come to your aid should you run afoul of some demon or another."

Vergil’s words are harsh, the sentiment entirely unlike Dante’s insistence that she retreat to safety or his concern over her well-being, but his pace slows, enough that she no longer has to push herself to keep up with him. It's a small, unexpected kindness, and it makes her curious; his expression gives away nothing of his thoughts, and his posture is tense, making her wonder if perhaps she has imagined it, or if he is merely more exhausted than he seems. He catches her looking and frowns at her, though he says nothing, and when the first surge of demons appear, none of them get close enough for her to use the gun strapped to her thigh. There is merely a flurry of distorted air, dark shadows that encircle the creatures, and, when they are gone, he submits to her examining him for new wounds with nothing more than a mild reproach. Vergil might be a killer, and he might be cold, but there is an honor to him, and that is how she justifies following him. It has _nothing_ , Lir tells herself, to do with Dante. 


End file.
